


Lester Watson Nygaard

by basedHermes



Category: Fargo (2014), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Case Fic, Crossover, F/M, Gen, M/M, Plotty, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 23:25:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4038610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basedHermes/pseuds/basedHermes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A BBC Sherlock/Fargo (2014) crossover and AU wherein John Watson and Lester Nygaard are cousins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lester Watson Nygaard

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:  
> • Relationships, characters, and additional tags will be updated every chapter.  
> • I also have no running/developing plot for this work, (and that honestly worries me) so it might take longer to update.

 

It is _5:30am._ The dawn is breaking, cold and dark, still raining.

Alone, waiting in the 221B sitting room, is Sherlock Holmes. He stands by the window, wearing one of his crisp, white, designer shirts and trousers underneath his usual blue dressing gown, hands clasped at his back. The dull street lights reflect his face behind the rain-trickled windows.

He closes his eyes. _Boredboredboredboredbored_.

From somewhere down a nearby alley, Sherlock gets a vibe that someone is getting mugged.

He is right. Or at least he thinks he is. He always thinks he's right, because he's Sherlock. Sherlock th— _ringringring_

Sherlock delves into his pocket, acquiring his mobile without looking at the caller ID. "Sherlock Holmes," he answers. "Wrong, no one is being mugged down that alley," says a familiar voice. Lestrade. Sherlock grunts into the mic. It seems that Gavin has finally picked up some of _Holmesian_ skills. Question is: _Which? Sherlock, or Mycroft?_ And how? Now that the thought came into his mind, he decides to answer his own questions.

First question, obvious - both, since George spends an equal amount of time with both of them, and then second - Sherlock honestly doesn't want to know, but he just does, as usual. Though he doesn't teach Gordon his deductive skills, maybe it rubbed off on him, or the most likely scenario: he quivers slightly at the disgusting thought of his brother and that crass Lestrade in bed together. He is shaken back to reality by Lestrade's slight _Cockney_ accent cutting through his mobile, "Molly is fine, so please, no more Danger Nights," he says in _10%_ anguish. "Fine. It's the least I could do, saving the Yard from _even more_ misery. You owe me," he hangs up and pockets his mobile angrily.

He turns to sit in his chair, cased _Stradivarius_ perched on its right arm. Fingers steepled under his chin, thinking. He anticipates his brother Mycroft to arrive in a few seconds now. Two days earlier, Mycroft contacted with Sherlock about a new case. He really needed one by now. Inbox empty, Lestrade with dull cases not even worth solving. It's been about 3 weeks since his last case and if this nothingness was prolonged for a bit more days, "Danger Nights" would continue - if there wasn’t a case, or if his girlfriend Molly Hooper was dead or in danger or away from the country for an extended amount of time. His last was two nights ago, and because there wasn't a case. Everyone knew how Danger Nights turned out; and it was _terrifying_. The usual sequence is listed below:

 

  1. Missing, and or presumably dead Sherlock Holmes.
  2. Missing, and or presumably dead individuals.
  3. Cadavers and body parts missing from Barts' mortuary.
  4. 221B an wreck: telly is on, missing skull, shattered China, bullet hole on the window, scattered papers and scientific journals, ripped-up books, John and Sherlock's chairs upturned, sudden profusion of new body parts stocked and jutting out of the blood-splattered fridge, possible dead body in Sherlock’s room, 3-5 packs of cigarettes littered on top of the coffee table, and more bullet holes on the sitting room wallpaper
  5. Sherlock Holmes found after 10 hours.



 

The term _"Danger Nights"_ was discovered by Mycroft Holmes many, many years ago, but that is another dreadful story. Sherlock's closed eyes tighten, lips pulled down to a frown.

As if on cue, he hears the audible picking. Sherlock sighs, knowing Mycroft always successfully picks the locks to 221B that he changes almost all of the time. He wonders why he's still doing it even if he very well knows that the _British government_ does, in fact, is now the new owner of Secrecy. He shudders at the thought of the former owner, definitely won't be mentioned for the sake of ruining his day- well, dawn.

_Sherlock on top of Barts' pathology department building, best friend staring up at him in silent despair as he descends, years of destroying his best rival's network. The past ran through his mind for more than 900 times._

The door to 221b slightly creeks below, pulling him out of his brief flashback. Sherlock hears no footsteps on the stairs, but that’s because his brother is awfully quiet for his weight. He did used to wish that Mycroft would be a ninja and agree to be his co-captain on ab imaginary Pirate Ship. The door to his sitting room swings open.

Eyes still closed, Sherlock smirks. Sherlock feels Mycroft taking the seat opposite Sherlock - John's armchair. "So?" Sherlock starts, tone dull and bored.

Mycroft clears his throat.

Sherlock opens his eyes, half-lidded, and drops his hands on the arms of his chair, avoiding the violin that may tip over and fall when touched.

Mycroft wraps his long fingers around the bamboo handle of his Italian-made umbrella.

"We're going on a vacation."

"A vacation?" Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. Has his brother gone ill? They both know they don't do or discuss such pedestrian things, unless if it was code. "Not interested," he dismisses, raking a finger down the thigh of his expensive black trousers. "An out-of-the-country business, if it's the term that you prefer." There we go.

Sherlock suddenly beams. "Serial killer?"

"Contract killer, con artist - extremely manipulative for his own good.”

Sherlock squints. "But why? You don't usually ask me to go out of the country to solve all the more interesting cases out of England, well, unless of course," Sherlock adjusts his voice to sound like Mycroft's posh accent before continuing, _"if it's of national importance,"_ his voice returns. "And I can tell—“ he looks Mycroft up and down before looking up at his face once more— “that it is none of that matter."

Mycroft digs his umbrella on Mrs. Hudson's Persian carpet.

There was a long silence before the younger Holmes decided to continue.

 

"Country," Sherlock asks, but his tone is not questioning.

"The United States of America," Mycroft smiles. It's fake and they both know it.

"Oh, _dear_ lord," Sherlock huffs a derisive laugh.

 

Mycroft _tsked_ at that. "How rude, dear brother. Isn't John's cousin from and residing in _America_?"

Sherlock bites back a groan. "He's _stupid_. He's not like John, and John was born here."

Mycroft goes still and ignores the new information. Sherlock notices. "You haven't even met the man yet, Sherlock."

"How has that information not reached you yet?" Sherlock asks, voice dropping low and scared.

Mycroft doesn't speak.

"You're slipping, Mycroft."

Mycroft decides not to counter.

"Speaking of John's cousin, this now, might actually be an interesting one, brother dear. Take a look," he fishes inside his jacket for a folder and hands it to Sherlock.

Steady footsteps become more audible from the upstairs. John. He walks into the sitting room with arms crossed. The Holmes Brothers deduce him simultaneously - _He had just finished showering,_ and is wearing a long-sleeved black shirt, his favourite gray jumper over it, a pair of dark jeans, usual _Loakes_ , and his _Tag Heuer_ watch.

He nods at Mycroft.

Mycroft looks at John and gives him a polite smile before looking back at Sherlock who is scanning through the files with his piercing, sharp, gray eyes; gleaming as they absorb every information on the pages.

The dark-haired Holmes suddenly gulps silently. Mycroft hears, but John doesn't. The light-haired Holmes smiles slightly, knowing that his little brother wouldn't let this opportunity pass. Out of all of his past cases, this particular one may set the challenge a few notches higher and will probably leave him more satisfied (or _terrified_ ) now that it involved a Watson.

John’s instinct kicks in, and he walks into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. John is making tea with ease as he hears the occasional _Sherlockian_ grunts and exaggerated sighs with the _Mycroftian_ eerily audible tight smiles. He gives little glances at the sitting room as he prepares each of the Holmes brothers' tea the way they liked. He smiles at how normal these two amazing men can be sometimes.

When John walks inside the sitting room with a tray and their tea, Sherlock looks up at him and says,

 

"John. Pack your bags. We're going to Minnesota."

"Oh! All that soon? Case?" John says as he hands Sherlock and Mycroft their cups.

"Obviously," said Sherlock, taking his tea and blowing into it carefully.

"Alright. I'll ring Lester," John's hands suddenly appear at either sides of his waist and the tray disappears.

"Lester.. why?"

"What do you mean why? Lester Nygaard. _Cousin of mine,_ remember? I told you about him."

 

Sherlock flinches, almost breaking his neck just to face Mycroft.

 

"No, John."

"Why not?"

"He's.. _involved_ ," Mycroft whispers.

 

"Okay," he walks to sit on the arm unoccupied by Sherlock's violin. His eyes drop and shift between the brothers in quiet shock before ruffling a hand through his sandy blonde hair. “But he’s not dead, is he?” Sherlock and Mycroft look at each other firmly, eyes searching. “Of course not,” Mycroft deadpans. They start to communicate through telepathy as allowed on account of their _over-200-iq-scores_ ; in a matter of milliseconds.

 

_(Shit.)_

Mycroft rolls his eyes. _(It doesn’t matter.)_

Sherlock breathes slowly, _(After all, they are family. Reminds me of us, actually.)_

Mycroft glances at John. _(Indeed, the danger-prone in the Watson genome,)_

Sherlock’s tilts his head down, eyes still on his brother’s. _(You say that like Lester is involved.)_

Mycroft sighs. _(Of course, because he is. It's blatantly obvious, isn't it? All these occurrences linking together with him and this "Malvo" bloke.)_

Sherlock doesn't say anything.

_(Oh, come now, Lockie. Has John changed your perspectives about the Criminal Mind?)_

Sherlock squirms at the nickname and disregards the last sentence. _(This is different,_ _)_ Sherlock frowns.

Mycroft stares at the ceiling for approximately _30_ seconds before coming down to look at Sherlock. _(No. No it’s not.)_

Sherlock shrugs. _(We’ll just see.)_

Mycroft rolls his eyes. _(I’ll win.)_

Sherlock couldn’t help but grit his teeth involuntarily. _(I am aware. You always win. All the time.)_

Mycroft smiles. _(I'm sure you have a plan in mind, little brother.)_

_(Of course.)_

Mycroft lifts a brow. _(Care to elaborate?)_

_(Primarily, I'll need you to get me his address.)_

Mycroft fishes for another folder inside his jacket, this time, the folder is longer, clean, and white. He hands it over to Sherlock, noting the hardened glances from John from peripheral vision.

 _(Inside that folder contains all you need, plus both of his addresses - former and new, a man and his child have already moved into his original one. Though it has only been an hour that they've purchased the house, they will be settling in after 3 more weeks. The house is guarded by my men, the crime scene will be free to your attention now, since it hasn't been cleaned out since the two murders, leaving everything fresh for your arrival. But anyway, as you can see, he has relocated, indisputably, in the woods. New wife, colleague from his former workplace. Speaking of workplaces, he has been promoted and is being paid handsomely, owning Nygaard Insurance. And lastly, he has a new..)_ Mycroft waves his hand around absently, _(look - as well, amazingly differing, indeed.)_

Sherlock blushes and tightens the grip on the new folder. Mycroft chuckles. John doesn't dare to look at the files. His eyes are fixed on the carpet.

Sherlock glances from the folder to Mycroft, then back to the folder, scanning more information. _(Then of course, John will be introducing me to Lester. We will stay for a short while in his new home. Hopefully he wouldn’t mind. You'll need to monitor him wherever he goes, text the details of everything that happens in the places that he is in and-)_

Mycroft interrupts. ( _Tsk, dear brother. You’re speaking like you do not know me. But anyway, he had recently won Best Insurance-Salesman of the year. The award night will be in a week. Something is bound to happen.)_

Sherlock’s eyes now look up and down at Mycroft. _(And how about this “Malvo”?)_

Mycroft's eyes avoid Sherlock's. _(We don't know where he is, but surely he has made modifications to his visage as well. Big chance he’ll be present in the award night.)_

Sherlock closes folder violently, placing it beside the first one he received, both now tucked into the cushion of his armchair. _(You're really slipping.)_

_(Oh, just minor slips.)_

Sherlock's eyes widen, intense, staring at his brother with a deathly frigid glare. _(That latter one isn't minor. The latter, in fact is the location of a professional, extremely manipulative murderer & con artist as you'd like to put it, who has surely fooled, captured, imprisoned, and murdered a lot of imprudent hundreds – and maybe even including important key government people that you should probably care about - before and after his location to Minnesota, including a mob that I actually know and take acknowledgement of, AND its employees; WHILST MOST LIKELY shagging and influencing MY. BEST. MATE'S. KIN.)_

The emphases on Sherlock's words increased in volume in his head. Mycroft sighs. _(The sentiment is leaking right out. Molly too, is changing you, dear me, have you even taken in what I taught you?)_

Sherlock breaks his glare, eyes softening, now fixed on the mantelpiece.

_(Don’t let it happen again, Mycroft.)_

Sherlock turns to give him one last glare. _(AND ANOTHER THING—)_

The empty chinas clutter softly in the tray that a nervous John takes to the kitchen.

The brothers broke their streak of telepathic communication as they noticed Detective Inspector Lestrade standing by the doorway. Greg has both of his hands stuffed inside his coat, graying hair, delightfully messy and has grown longer that made him look a tad younger. He winks at Mycroft who blushes. The elder Holmes clears his throat and stands from John's chair before he walks over to Sherlock, handing him two plane tickets. "We’ll be leaving at _10._ See you at the airport," he says, as he checks his watch.

Sherlock checks his own. _6:00am_. He nods as John once again walks back into the room.

Mycroft nods absently while uttering a short "John," and "Sherlock," before leaving with Greg Lestrade’s arm around his waist. Sherlock scoffs and John ruffles his unruly, dark curls while giggling. Sherlock feels John's hand go stiff for a few milliseconds, clasped around thick locks of his own curls. John stops the ruffling.

"You have questions, and you may ask them."

John walks over and plops down at his own chair now, legs propped up on the right-hand side, head dangling on the other. He sighs and closes his eyes. "What did he do?"

Sherlock pockets the tickets before digging his heels into the carpet.

"From these files," Sherlock starts, he smirks as he picks up the brown folder with blood spots that Mycroft given to him earlier before the latter, cleaner, white one. He waves it lightly, "it says that he has ‘ _witnessed’_ – Sherlock raised both of his hands, using the pointer and middle as air-quotations- _“_ the murder of his second wife AND a former Chief-of-Police," Sherlock re-secures the folder with the rubber band and tosses it to the doctor. He throws his head back, laughing quite criminally and derisive, but continues.

"Who was shot.." Sherlock lifts his head up to look at John. Hands, grasping the arms of his chair tightly. Teeth, biting back at his bottom lips. John straightens and sits properly while continuing to stare at him, holding the folder of files in his hands, unopened and unmoving.  "Right.." Sherlock shifts his legs. John sighs, sets the folder down on his lap and rubs his face. "In front of him..." Sherlock closes his eyes, head tilting back slightly as he heaves a whimpered sigh, which came out more of a moan. He licks his lips.

"I really-" John hesitates, "Don't know how you get off on these things."

“Ooh, John, there is more, I just caught up in the moment, - and probably loads more to come—“ Sherlock's breath steadies from a ragged state, lust almost completely gone. He ignores John's statement and continues, seriously. Brows furrowed as he leaned towards John in a blink of an eye, "after partially witnessing the murder of his own wife. ‘Said that he came home that night hearing his brother and Pearl Nygaard conversing in the basement. About what seems to be their affair together?" Sherlock asks. He never did that, no: question whatever he uttered. That's odd. Really odd.

"Also rumoured to order a hitman to kill his former highschool _bully_ ," he drawls out bully like it's a word used for people with no class. "And that is what started all of this, apparently."

Sherlock hands John his plane ticket, and in exchange, John gives Sherlock the folder. "You really think I shouldn't give him a call?" said John, as he turns the ticket around.

"Yes. He'll then be expecting us. He would avoid us and hide. Isn't that how he is?"

" _Oh yah!_ " John says, mocking Lester's accent. He giggles before shifting back to his own voice, "Ghastly man, that Lester."

He pockets the ticket and looks at Sherlock in the eye. "Knowing you, you'd probably be upset about me aski--"

Sherlock cuts him off with "John. Really. It's like you don't know who I am."

John purses his lips, regretting his statement. "Sorry."

Sherlock smiles.

"But may I at least ask how you did it?" John says, laughing.

"Do what?"

"The thing that you two do, though being absolutely quiet, the silence was so intense that I could actually hear it, persuaded me to come down and see who could be possibly killing each other. With silence, Sherlock. Silence!"

Sherlock just smiles wider. "You shouldn't giggle at the mention of death, John."

"But you do!" John bursts into laughter. "You giggle all the time whenever you hear the word murder, like a prepubescent teenage girl who receives a reply from her boyfriend! Then you go right at it, up and pumping with energy just to see and solve this murder in a quick whip. JUST LIKE A ONE-NIGHT-STAND, SHERLOCK!" Sherlock starts to have a laughing fit as well.

The two continue conversing until they finally fell to slumber at _7am_ in their legendary chairs. It’s _9:00am_ now.

A knock on the door. "Yoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson calls, opening the door. "Oh dear!" she whispers as she finds Sherlock and John, asleep on their chairs.

Sherlock is sleeping soundly, though practically planking his own armchair, vertically-placed Union Jack pillow supporting his bottom to succeed a full plank. John, on the other hand, is sitting properly with arms crossed, head tilted to the back of his chair, peaceful-looking.

"You can um, stay and watch them, dear," Mrs. Hudson giggles, referring to Molly Hooper, now walking up the almost-rickety steps of 221B. The landlady sets the tray of morning tea for Sherlock and John on top of the tall, small, round table beside John's chair. In the tray sat one more mug, for Molly. "Help yourself to some tea, dear," says Mrs. Hudson, letting Molly in and gently closing the door behind her. The sight is quite hilarious. Molly bites back her snickers as she plants a chaste kiss on her boyfriend's forehead. Sherlock smiles at the act, though remains asleep. She indeed made herself some tea while both the men slept. She sips and watches, crossing her legs on the couch.

Molly wears a hot pink, long-sleeved, collared shirt, black capris and white ballerina flats. Her hair is done in a ponytail, held up by a diamond-encrusted scrunchie that Sherlock bought her. The sunlight that poured into 221B's windows reflected on her buffed and manicured nails. Her fingers curl around the warm mug. She sighs contentedly.

Eventually one of them woke up. And it was John. He stretches before slightly flinching at the sight of Molly with a finished mug of tea in her hands. "Good morning, John," she smiles as she stands. "Good morning, Molly." John says calmly. He kisses her on the cheek. "You should wake him up. I've take a shower before he hogs all the warm water," he gives Molly a gentle pat on the back. Molly nods as John marched to his own bathroom upstairs.

Molly takes John's advice and stares down at a sleeping Sherlock, who awakens by the feeling of proximity. He opens his eyes and jolts fully awake, looking up at Molly – from shock, to amazement, then love. “Waking an individual up by staring at them is by far the most terrifying alarm clock,” he says groggily while shifting to sit properly.

They exchange good mornings. Sherlock stands stretching as he tells Molly about his new case out of the country. She saddens a bit, but Sherlock lifts her chin for a kiss. He promises her that he would not die and he would be back soon. Sherlock compliments Molly on her choice of attire. She blushes.

John emerges from the upstairs, carrying a laptop bag and wearing a burgundy and olive flannel shirt under an dark gray cardigan, jeans, shoes, and watch in check. Beside him, he sets down a relatively medium-sized luggage. "Get ready, flight's in an hour," John says, hands resting on hips. Sherlock nods before planting one last kiss on Molly's forehead. The detective walks to the bathroom briskly, appearing out in 30. He also carries a laptop bag, and he wears one of his many, pricey black suits, blue scarf around his neck and coat perched on his shoulder, _Rotary_ watch, and of course, paired with his usual, shiny YSL oxfords. He settles his own stroller luggage on the floor.

Sherlock puts on his coat. "Let's go John. See you, Molly," Molly blows a kiss as John and Sherlock exit the flat and got into one of Mycroft’s posh cars. He sees that Lestrade is driving, Mycroft in the passenger seat. Sherlock scowls and the elder Holmes just smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:  
> • I do not profit off any of my works here on AO3.org.  
> • This work is currently a WIP and will consist of ??? chapters.  
> Disclaimers:  
> • Original Sherlock Holmes - © Sir Arthur Conan Doyle  
> • BBC’s Modern Adaptation of Sherlock Holmes - © Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, & others  
> • And other notable Sherlock Holmes Adaptations - en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adaptations_of_Sherlock_Holmes  
> • Original Fargo (movie, 1996) - © Coen Brothers, Joel and Ethan  
> • FX’s Adaptation of Fargo - © Noah Hawley, & others


End file.
